


carved from light

by kiyala



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Community: trope_bingo, M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 17:50:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiyala/pseuds/kiyala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras has wings. When Grantaire is drunk enough, he can see them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	carved from light

**Author's Note:**

> written for [trope bingo](http://trope-bingo.dreamwidth.org/).
> 
> thanks to jaye and pie for their support!
> 
>  
> 
>  **edit:** now with a lovely illustration by [teatham](http://teathamgsm.tumblr.com/post/48203539312/drawn-for-carved-from-light-written-by-kiyala)!

The first time Grantaire sees them, he blinks, frowns at his nearly-empty bottle of wine, and downs the rest before firmly putting it down on the table.

When he looks up at Enjolras again, they're still there. Two large wings that look as though they are crafted from light itself. They're folded, tucked close against his back, but they're _there_. Curiously, they do not cast light on anything around them, and whenever people stand close to Enjolras, they shift slightly, moving out of the way. Nobody else can see them or feel them and _oh_ , Grantaire is so very drunk.

Bahorel kicks his foot under the table, and Grantaire realises that he's staring. Enjolras glances at him, brow furrowing slightly in confusion. Grantaire quickly averts his gaze, but it only ends up settling on the wings instead. Enjolras' frown deepens, and Grantaire looks away entirely, turning to Bahorel.

"I've had enough for tonight. I'm heading home."

He's had so much to drink that he needs Bahorel and Joly on either side of him, supporting his weight as they stagger back to his place. The next day, he is tired and sore, but more or less sober. When he sees Enjolras, the wings are gone.

«·»

Grantaire doesn't see the wings again for days. He tells himself that they were a drunken hallucination; nothing else makes sense. He's probably hallucinated stranger things before. He's convinced that this is the case, but then the next time Enjolras gives an impassioned speech about their need to overthrow the government and bring about change, no matter the cost, Grantaire starts drinking heavily and that's when he sees the wings again.

They move along with the rest of his body as he speaks and Grantaire watches in fascination, chin resting in his hand as he keeps drinking. He stays there long after most people leave, listening to the conversations around him, stumbling over his words and slurring them together whenever he joins in. He tries not to be obvious about the way he keeps looking in Enjolras' direction but eventually, every time he looks over, Enjolras is looking right back at him.

With a grin, Grantaire sits and _stares_ , unabashed, until Enjolras crosses the room.

"It's late. You're drunk. You should go home."

Enjolras places his hand on Grantaire's shoulder. "Come on. I'll walk you home."

Walking translates into _carrying_ , but Enjolras doesn't seem to mind. Grantaire certainly doesn't, leaning into Enjolras' warmth. It's raining outside, just heavier than a drizzle, with the promise of more to come later. Grantaire can see it falling around them, but cannot feel it on him. He looks up, jaw going slack when he sees the wings spread above them, sheltering them. They're incongruously bright in the dark of the night, and a voice at the back of his mind tells him that if they're just a hallucination, they shouldn't be able to keep him dry like this.

[](http://teathamgsm.tumblr.com/post/48203539312/)

"Come on," Enjolras mutters as they climb the stairs to Grantaire's room.

Grantaire leans into him, laughing softly to himself. "Are you an angel?"

He expects Enjolras to shrug it off and remind him how drunk he is. Instead, Enjolras goes very still.

"Enjolras." Grantaire looks at him, reaching out to touch the tip of a wing and this time, Enjolras flinches away.

He lets go of Grantaire, who sways for a moment before leaning heavily against the wall. He huffs quietly. "You're not going to tell me I'm just seeing things?"

Enjolras frowns. "Are you? Seeing things?"

"Well." Grantaire points. "Your wings…"

Enjolras glances around the hall, then quickly ushers Grantaire into his room.

"If this is some kind of joke…" Enjolras begins and then sighs, shaking his head. "I don't know whether or not I _want_ you to be joking."

Grantaire reaches out again, and this time he touches the edge of Enjolras' wing. It's a strange feeling, warm and soft, yet not entirely solid. He strokes along the edge of it, marvelling at the sensation. Enjolras is staring at him in wonder.

"Of all the people in this world, and it's _you_ who sees them," Enjolras breathes. "I don't understand this at all."

"You are an angel then." Grantaire nods to himself, satisfied. It makes sense.

"We need to talk about this," Enjolras tells him seriously. "…After you've had some sleep, I think."

Grantaire nods. Sleep suddenly sounds like a brilliant idea. Not bothering to undress, he crawls into bed, falling asleep before his head even touches his pillow.

«·»

The next morning, the wings are gone. Enjolras, however, is still there. He's sitting on the edge of Grantaire's bed, looking down at him.

"Did you sleep at all?" Grantaire asks, sitting up, rubbing his eyes.

"A little," Enjolras replies, and Grantaire notices his extra blankets folded neatly on the floor.

"You don't look even half as bad as most would after a night of heavy drinking. Doesn't your head hurt?"

Grantaire shrugs in reply. "I don't usually feel ill the morning after drinking."

Enjolras shakes his head with a quiet laugh. "That explains a lot about you."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Grantaire replies, getting to his feet. "You're still here, so I assume we're talking about your wings."

"Do you still see them?" Enjolras asks.

"No. Only when I'm blind drunk, it seems. Does anybody else see them?"

"Not that I know of. Nobody else has mentioned it. Nobody else stares at me, the way that you do."

Grantaire doesn't bother to tell Enjolras that most of the time, the staring has nothing to do with the wings. Enjolras is watching him closely, and Grantaire turns away, masking everything he feels. He hears Enjolras sigh quietly.

"You frustrate me, Grantaire. I feel as if I can never quite understand you."

"Part of my charm," Grantaire replies, looking over his shoulder with a grin.

Despite his words, Enjolras seems to understand that Grantaire needs a little time to himself. He gets to his feet, clearing his throat.

"I'll meet you at the patisserie down the street in half an hour. From there, we'll go to my place and we can talk."

Grantaire nods. "I'll see you then."

He doesn't say thank you, but Enjolras seems to understand that too.

«·»

Half an hour gives Grantaire the time he needs to pull himself together and sort his thoughts out. He doesn't quite know what to say to Enjolras; he has so many questions that he doesn't know where to begin. He bathes and gets dressed, trying to clear his mind. He'll work it out when the time comes.

When they meet outside the patisserie, Enjolras looks calm and in-control once again. Grantaire is sure that they both needed the time to themselves, and that makes him feel a little better.

Grantaire buys himself a sweet pastry with chocolate in it and sugar sprinkled on top; Enjolras buys a simple sandwich. They walk back to Enjolras' place in silence, until the door is shut behind them.

"How can you stand eating that for breakfast?" Enjolras asks, pulling a face as he starts making coffee for both of them.

"I don't believe in moderation," Grantaire replies. "If I find something that I enjoy, I don't see the point in making myself miserable by denying myself."

Enjolras laughs to himself. "That's almost wise, Grantaire."

" _Almost_." Grantaire smiles, baring his teeth, before biting into his pastry.

Enjolras passes him a mug of steaming coffee and sits down at the table. Grantaire sits opposite him.

"I barely see you enjoy anything."

"That's not true. I enjoy drinking."

Enjolras' wrinkled nose says what he thinks of that. Grantaire simply shrugs in reply. "Well, if not for the wine, I would never have seen your wings."

Just like that, they're back onto the topic they're both here to discuss. They lapse into a brief silence before Enjolras clears his throat.

"This must be strange for you."

"Not entirely," Grantaire replies. He reflects on his reaction to Enjolras' wings, and finds that while he's found them beautiful or other-worldly, the thought of Enjolras being an angel doesn't quite shock him the way it probably should.

"I mean, I have always thought of you as an angel—just not quite so literally."

"Is that so?" Enjolras asks.

Grantaire drops his gaze to his coffee cup and shrugs. He doesn't think he's ever really tried being subtle about his feelings for Enjolras. Even so, Enjolras hasn't seemed to take notice.

"Why is it that nobody sees your wings except for me?" Grantaire asks. "And why do I only see them when drunk?"

"People do not see what they do not believe," Enjolras explains. "Who would believe that I am actually an angel, and not human? Even you need to be extremely drunk to entertain the possibility. Though that surprises me more than anything. Of all people who could possibly believe in me being an angel—no matter what the situation—I wouldn't have expected it to be you."

"I hardly believe in anything." Grantaire shrugs. "I'll admit as much. But I do believe in you."

Enjolras reaches across the table, touching Grantaire's hand. "I appreciate that."

Grantaire turns his hand over, their palms brushing against each other. His fingers curl gently around Enjolras' before he lets go. Enjolras doesn't understand _why_ Grantaire has such faith in him, and perhaps he never will unless he's told. Grantaire holds his tongue, as ever.

Enjolras gives him a curious look, but doesn't ask. He goes back to his breakfast and Grantaire does the same, letting the sweetness of his pastry chase the bitterness of his coffee away, then doing the reverse.

"If you are an angel," Grantaire says at length, "Why are you down here, among the humans? Don't you belong somewhere else?"

This brings a wry smile to Enjolras' lips. "Well, apparently I am too strong-willed to be deserving of my post. I am not patient enough to let fate run its course as it has been decided. I've been told I have a penchant for meddling."

Grantaire laughs loudly. "That's putting it mildly. So are you here to earn your place back in their ranks? Or are you here to do things your own way?"

Enjolras smiles. "What do you think?"

"Definitely the latter." Grantaire raises his cup to his lips. "A strong-willed angel. I suppose that if one was ever to exist, it would have to be you."

"I don't scare you? Or confuse you?" Enjolras asks. He gets to his feet, taking his empty cup to the sink. He doesn't sit back down, standing at the edge of the table instead.

"You confuse me and terrify me," Grantaire tells him. "On a regular basis, and you have for much longer than I've seen even a hint of wings on your back. It has nothing to do with you being an angel, and everything to do with the fact that I would follow you to the end of the world, simply because you asked me to."

Enjolras' eyes widen at that, and Grantaire wonders if he's said too much. He doesn't know which would be worse, Enjolras understanding his feelings and rejecting them, or failing to understand them at all.

"To the end of the world?" Enjolras asks. "No matter what the cause?"

"It's not the cause I care for," Grantaire replies. "It's _you_."

Enjolras' lips part on a quiet sigh. "You believe in me that much?"

"Perhaps that is why I see your wings," Grantaire muses.

"It is belief like yours that gives me any strength down here at all," Enjolras murmurs. "Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that it's _your_ belief. I do not think that anybody else would follow me, the way you do."

"You could convince them," Grantaire replies.

"But you don't need convincing."

"No." Grantaire's voice is soft. "I don't."

"Then I owe you my thanks for that," Enjolras says, brushing Grantaire's hair back with his fingers, bending to kiss his forehead.

Grantaire makes a pained sound at the back of his throat, his self-resolve weakening. He wants to grab Enjolras by the front of his shirt and kiss him _properly_ , to show him the line where faith ends and unquestioning love begins.

Enjolras frowns questioning, his hand settling on Grantaire's shoulder, and Grantaire does just that. He drags Enjolras down, crushes their lips together, terrified of pulling away because it means facing the consequences.

When they finally do pull apart, Grantaire forces himself to hold Enjolras' gaze. He can't read the look in Enjolras' eyes, as they take him in, from his eyes to his mouth, and the way his lips tremble with every breath.

Then, finally, Enjolras licks his lips, whispers, " _oh_ ," and kisses him back even harder.

Grantaire clings to Enjolras, because it's all he can do.


End file.
